


The Fool's Excuse

by madamedegris



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, So much italicization, Spoilers, cannonically non-canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamedegris/pseuds/madamedegris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite being thrown into a world-threatening crisis where she is outplayed by multiple parties and kept from knowing whole truths, Lavellan gathers an indomitable force and leads as the fate-bending Inquisitor. Her power is in her independence, and I believe that is why Solas can't help but be transfixed. Not when the fool trumps all other suits. Not when she changes the game itself.</p><p>Adding to the growing list of fanfiction on the relationship between the fool and hierophant, these vignettes focus largely on Lavellan, a fiercely independent rogue, and Solas, the bastard who made us all cry inconsolably for hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Green

I could not breathe.

It had been dull pain and shrill nightmares that had first stolen my breath; dreams of putrid green and the sight of a strange woman. I awoke to a damp darkness, the smell of mildew and iron. It was nullifying, yes, but the comfort did not last long: elven eyes grow accustomed to the black, and my senses reviled their small revelations. The clammy weight of metal, the ache of stifled wrists, the unrelenting pressure of heavy floors and caving walls and burdened ceiling. Stone shadows, cackling with unfriendly energy.

I had _terrible_ claustrophobia.

Of course I had been caught by the _shemlen_ , imprisoned in their man-made mountain. ‘Fort’. I tried out the word on my tongue, quietly, and then closed my eyes in desperate fury. What did I get myself into?

I murmured a prayer to Mythal, asking for escape in the name of justice. Tradition was all that held me.  
  
Thoughts turned homeward. Vunin had taught me how to fletch an arrow and walk on ice with wide legs and use one’s dagger as an extension of the arm. He had taught me – even after Halamshiral – to count prey before striking, from within the safety of the forest. _Adahlen_ , I reminded myself, lest the word escape me. A small comfort in the wild unknown. I thanked Vunin then, just as I did now, as I counted the prey before me. I couldn’t help but suck in short breaths as green throbbed from my scarred hand. No time. I would worry about the curious mark later.  
  
Four. Four soldiers on my own would be difficult, even with the darkness on my side.  
  
Two more approached me, torches bright and displaying the polished wealth of the swords carried. I glanced upwards, towards the pressing stone arches above me. Metal grates hung uselessly in the air, as empty as the surrounding prison cells. My escape route, if there was to be an escape.  
  
“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”  
  
The accent was thick, but I understood it, all the same. I was silent as accusations were thrown, eyebrows knitted like a fisherman’s nets. The very picture of Dalish tenacity; my hunter brethren would have been proud.  
  
My stillness bothered the soldier woman. It was easy to see I’d been condemned, knew my life was forfeit in the mind of this Nevarran. Her friend – some red-haired human who had been ominously quiet until that moment – reeled her back when she grabbed my dull mercenary leather. I smiled, pleased as punch to find the woman so volatile. Next time, the _shem_ would not back away unharmed.  
  
“We need her, Cassandra.” The hooded figure spun towards me, features gentle and concerned.  
  
She was one to watch.  
  
“So,” I began, “what happens now?”  
  
“Do you remember what happened?” The rogue asked, completely ignoring my question. Typical. “How this began?”  
  
Why did I answer? Why did I _submit_ so easily to these strangers? My best guess was exhaustion. I tried to explain, really tried, but nothing could describe the insurmountable fear and desire to run, to keep running, to escape the Green. Not the green of elfroot during Summer Solstice or gray-green of the Free Marches. The Green that sang to you, that sang of a time long since forgotten. It sang of sickness and greed. It was beautiful.  
  
“A woman?”  
  
I sat there for more than a moment. Yes, there had been a woman. Tall, but with heavy shoulders. She was all kindness and acceptance. She had reached out to me out of sacrifice, not survival.  
  
“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to harken back to DA:O times, when the Dalish were downright rude. It's a nomadic thing.


	2. Vir Tanadhal

Nothing could have prepared me for the Breach. Just as the green pulsed from my hand in reaction to the whirling maelstrom, I was delirious with nausea. Even as Cassandra tried to explain, _it is killing you_ , far worse was the reality that I had never encountered magic before. Not really. The First had his healing powers, and the Keeper once dealt with a cave-in by a simple wave of her arms. But this… this magic was unwieldy. This was why the air felt positively _alive_ , why my nightmares felt so real. I had felt the magic coursing through me, the whispers of the song, but it was the Breach, and the mark’s connection to it, that overwhelmed me.

I felt sick.

It did not take long for Cassandra to cut my bonds. Nor did it prove difficult to find a weapon among the heaps of bodies, as we, both gaoler and prisoner, inched our way to the Green. Truth be told, I would have preferred daggers; I was on edge and desperate to be gone, and close-quartered fighting helped my nerves. I slung the bow and a random quiver onto my back without hesitation, however, asking Mythal to aim my arrows true. For all the good it’d do me.

Cassandra wasn’t happy, of course. The seeker could smell a willing deserter from a hundred paces. At least. Besides, a prisoner should have no access to a weapon. I was irate; when in history did _shems_ ever protect the elves? I was innocent – willing to cut off my green-glowing hand to prove it – but I would _not_ hand over my arrows. 

Our eyes locked, each of us a woman unwilling to bend. _Vir bor’assan_ , the hunters had taught me. It was an ancient code, one the Dalish embodied to honor Andruil during our long journeys on the Hunt. Way of the Bow. I wanted to scream, _this is different, this stranger has condemned me to trial and death_. Hang the stupid bow.

In the end, the Dalish way was all I had. Bend, but do not break. “You’ll have to trust me,” I softly countered, the closest thing Cassandra would get to an apology.

She was a better sport about it than me. “I should remember you agreed to come willingly.”

Our relationship markedly improved over the course of several skirmishes. As we walked, my balance became stable, my nausea gone but for a small head ache. I used the chaos to as best an advantage I could, hiding behind fallen trees and aiming at exposed areas that Cassandra, in turn, exploited. 

Once, I was being overwhelmed by two demons, cornered into jagged rock with their menace. I had no hope of blending into the wilds, no flask of smoke to make my predicament vanish. Then she appeared, screaming, slamming sword and shield into both enemies. _Maker take you_. It allowed me the opening I needed to escape.

It was to be first of many breathless _Ma serannas_ spoken to the seeker. I just didn’t know it yet.

“We’re getting close to the rift,” Cassandra finally shouted, as the sound of clashing metal became louder. The Breach took up the entire sky. “You can hear the fighting.”

“Who’s fighting?” I consciously checked my quiver. Full enough.

“You’ll see,” the seeker offered vaguely. I tried be an agreeable girl and keep quiet. I had been wrong about Cassandra; she would not see her charge harmed without reason. And she did not seem the sort to lay a trap. “We must help them.”

I idled deliberately as we neared stone ruins, pulling my arm neatly back to allow for long-range fighting. Soldiers hacked at demons, while Cassandra bolstered their attacks with sheer will. “Ready! Shields down!” she shouted, and the men roared in unison. In the distance, a dwarf shot loudly from a polished crossbow. When his bolt whistled just past my ear and took down a lanky monster hiding behind, I forfeited my Dalish sensibilities for a stronger position, knocking down a demon pathetically with my bow limb as I ran to stand by the dwarf. He laughed.

“Bianca would kill me if I tried something like that!” He had to shout above the shrill shrieks of dying wraiths. 

Green pools bubbled near us, aided by the rift in the center of the ruin. The dwarf pointed in warning at the bright miasma, training his crossbow expectantly. 

A pale arm, firm and insistent, pulled at my left hand. “Quickly, before more come through!”

My arm was yanked towards the rift, a floating green crystal, jaundiced and corrupt. I reflexively turned towards the stranger, furious and terrified all at once, reaching over with my one free arm to undo his hold.

**How dare you touch me stranger the marks hurts tingles burns what are you doing stop stop**

And then, all of the sudden, I felt the primordial tie – no, chain – come into my grasp. I wondered if holding this raw power was anything like being a mage. _Vir Assan_ , it sang. Do not waver. Instinctually, I pulled. Hard.

The rift exploded, green bits falling like ash in a smithy.

I grasped my clutched hand in wonder. _The rift was gone_. It had all happened so quickly. Suspicious eyes wandered to the elf beside me. “What did you do?” It was not a question.

“I”, the flat-ear paused, smirking, “did nothing. The credit is yours.” At this, Cassandra took a step forward, discontent written plainly on her face. I was apparently not as guilty in the seeker’s eyes as I had first thought. I considered my hand, no longer glowing, and sighed. Even if Cassandra would try to help protect me, the _shemlen_ saw a use for me and, more importantly, the mark.

Escape would not be easy.

“I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake,” he continued, with a hint of apology in his voice. He took a step back, to allow more space between us. Apparently, he noticed my trouble breathing. “And it seems I was correct.”

Cassandra was hopeful. “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.” 

The pale mage studied me, almost scrutinizing in his observation. To my credit, I refused to back down, throwing hostility right back at the flat-ear with my best impression of the phrase, ‘glaring daggers’. 

“Possibly.” He finally offered. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.” His voice was positively dripping with encouragement.

I bowed slightly, sarcasm my only means of retaliation. The dwarf, who had been awkwardly tugging at his gloves the entire time, sensed a break in the silent battle, and gladly intervened.  
  
“Good to know. Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He strode over, winking at Cassandra and introducing himself as Varric, storyteller and occasional ‘unwelcome tag-along.” I couldn’t help but smile in welcome. At least _we_ would get along well in the Valley. Cassandra tore away, disgusted. 

“If there are to be introductions,” the mage added, as if to scold my cold reservation, “I am Solas.”

“Dir – I mean, Lindirinae.” I offered lamely. I felt the tips of my ears burn red-hot. 

Solas raised an eyebrow. “A lofty name.”

“Everyone calls me Diri,” I amended, and then glared, angry at myself. There was no need to make excuses with the stranger. 

Solas nodded. “I am pleased to see you still live.”

Which confused me. I had never met this man in my life, why would he be glad to see me live as if we’d seen each other before? Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember anything prior to having woken up that afternoon. A spy sent by her clan to investigate this ‘Conclave’, and then nothing. Just… a world of green. A sacrifice.

It was only on our way to the forward camp, with Cassandra leading the group and Solas not far behind, that Varric explained. All who were a part of the Conclave had been dead for three days now. “Except you, of course,” he added merrily. “Solas kept that mark from killing you while you slept.”

I had a hard time processing all this. I had been asleep – imprisoned, chained, vulnerable – for three days? “Why?”

“Oh come on,” Varric tutted, “He’s not _that_ bad. I’ve met mages worse than him.” I nodded silently, not willing to ask nor argue.

It made no sense. A mage who had not only risked joining Cassandra’s forces, risked studying the corrupted magic of the Breach, but also risked us both by stabilizing my mark… this was no simple flat-ear. The lack of _vallaslin_ confused me, naturally. Surely he was the Keeper of a nearby clan? Why else would Solas risk interfering in human affairs?

Varric nudged me as we climbed the bank, concerned by the quiet. “Hey. We’re all in this together, all right?” 

_Vir Adahlen_. The forest is stronger than the single tree.

“Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Vir Tanadhal** : 'Way of the Three Trees.' A Dalish philosophy honoring Andruil, the goddess of the hunt. Composed of Vir Assan, Vir Bor'assan and Vir Adahlen.
> 
>  **Ma serannas** : 'My thanks.'
> 
>  **Shemlen** : 'Quickling.' Derogatory term for humans.
> 
> I apologize for the multitude of elven references (I write these chapters with the Dragon Age wiki taking up half my screen, if it makes anyone feel better). A Dalish elf like Lavellan is going to cling to her customs with an iron-grip as she is thrown into the multi-cultural world of Thedas, however. Something of a defense mechanism.


	3. The Gray

I awoke to a mewling halla and leather trampling soft grass. I heard the peculiar sizzle of a fire that had started at the urgency of a rune, and the lazy call of songbirds before dawn broke. Somewhere, a feminine laugh rang. 

The sounds of a rising camp.

Groggily, I got to my feet, pushing aside undone braids and half-heartedly rolling my sleep mat. The world was gray-green in its first hours of the day, but my clan was already alert. Hunters were collected, ready to walk the woods’ way. Some of the people – those who had heeded the call of Sylaise – were busy boiling water for the day’s washing, a few mending clothes while others organized baskets of fruit for our morning fast. 

Vunin was waiting for me, a steaming cup in his hands. He smiled at my disheveled hair.

“ _Aneth ara_. Keeper Deshanna said you’d had a long journey.” 

Creators, it was like I’d never left. I lifted my hand consciously, trying to assemble the braids into something of an organized look. I quickly gave up as Vunin slowly shook his head.

“After what happened, I do not think anyone will mind your bedhead.” He pointed to the Breach with a jerk of his head, handing me the hot tea. His eyes glinted with curiosity. “It must’ve been hell.” The _shem_ phrase was fitting.

My eyes fell guiltily onto my warm cup. I had done what I could to mend the Breach, but the mark proved weak against its ferocity. I didn’t wait to give the Chantry a chance to burn a heretic.

“Diri,” I looked up, “this is the affair of humans.” Vunin placed a friendly hand on my shoulder, staring down as if to burn the silent message onto me. _It is not your fault_. I suddenly remembered Halamshiral. I remembered the look on their faces, the same determination and hope that I wore with equal zeal.

I sipped my tea as Vunin walked away, and as he joined the other hunters, I resolved instead to find Keeper Deshanna.

The keeper was not yet elderly, but cold mornings bothered her limbs, and so I found her beside a small fire, the red sail of an aravel draped over her legs. She was our leader, and she mended sails and fed the Halla, same as any member of the clan. “Tell me,” she spoke with maternal care as I folded a long edge of red silk onto my lap, “what has my _inan_ found?”

I smiled at the childhood name, despite myself. There had been a reason I was chosen for the Conclave. “Nothing good, Keeper.” I tried, and failed, to make the same dainty loops of thread that Deshanna managed into the cloth.

“It was June who gave us the power to craft the dagger, Diri,” Deshanna started, “but Sylaise was the gentle soul who guided the lessons.”

I pondered the Dalish puzzle, gave up on my sewing, and stared blankly at the keeper. She winked. “Don’t be so grim, _da’len_.”

“If I only had the patience, _hahren_.” I sighed. “It’s worse than we feared. The destruction of the conclave has only emboldened the war. The Templars take pitchforks to be staves in disguise, and mages use whatever reserves they have to continue their fight. Some say blood magic.”

“No doubt,” she nodded sagely. “We scoff at the use, but we must ask ourselves: at what cost would we protect that which we held most dear?”

The trappings of the mystic was a mystery to me, and I could not help but be suspicious of the primal blood magic. “It is not just their lives they sacrifice, Keeper,” I argued, careful to use gentle words. She shook her head, sadly.

“It is never _just_ a life that is sacrificed, magic or no.”

“Regardless,” I broke away, unwilling to continue the heavy topic, “it is believed magic caused the explosion. The Chantry is looking for a scapegoat.”

She glanced at my hand as she threaded her needle through the sail. So she knew.

“The breach is stable, for now,” I relented, “but I will have to continue this journey.”

“It is not a journey one should travel alone, _inan_.” I stood, handing her my unfinished sewing and kissing her lightly on the forehead. 

“I’d never think to deprive you the fun of killing a demon,” I answered. I heard her laugh even as I walked towards the edge of camp. She had been my keeper since I had been born. She – and all the others that formed the Lavellan clan – were as much family to me as my own sister. They protected me as I protected them.

I passed the last aravel quietly, greeting the craftsman with a smile. We chatted as if I’d never left for Haven, as if the hole in the sky didn’t exist. I heartily promised to bring back any ironbark I found while hunting. I made me way to the forest wall, where I knew my hunter brothers and sisters were waiting for me.

Vunin handed me my bow, patient as I shouldered the weapon before offering a quiver. I breathed easier at the thought of the Hunt; it was familiar and beloved and above all, a reminder that I belonged here. The trees rustled with a slight breeze. Good. The animals would not so easily catch our scent. My friend stood by my side.

“Now is the hour of our victory.” He was always so calm. Confident.

“Do you really think we’ll catch so much?” I asked him. He smiled in response, white teeth bared and glinting. It confused me.

Leafy shadows splayed themselves in our midst, and the wind, intangible and free, whispered. Warned. _Bring forth the sacrifice_. The forest, relished by our clan and once as familiar to me as my own skin, was now dark and lonely. Feared. An elf stood among the trees. He stared at me, undaunted by the group of hunters that surrounded me. I turned to the still-smiling Vunin, and when I looked back, the solitary elf was gone. The rush of silence roared in my ears.

He wore no vallaslin.

“What’s going on, here?” I asked.

I had no idea why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Aneth ara** : A friendly greeting, used among fellow Dalish.  
>  **Inan** : 'Eyes.'
> 
> Lately, I've been considering the idea that it was not just simply Divine Justinia who was the sacrifice. From the broader, "the powers-that-may-be will it to be so" sense. Not Coryphyenis.


	4. Claustrophobia

I had a hard time convincing the flat-ear to remain calm.

“You screamed. I hea– I heard you scream. Adan will have my head if I don’t get you some elfroot.” The elf started to collect the bundle she had dropped in astonishment, reaching for a pot and rags.

I raised a hand to my forehead, trying to brush away both hair and headache with the aid of cold fingers. I was back in a human building, and the lack of fresh air and open space left me feeling nauseated. The woman bustled about fretfully, having somehow procured water and brewing a dark tea. She mumbled under her breath as she worked.

I tried to gain a sense of direction, hoping to find clues in the wooden walls and shelves. I gazed crestfallen at a statue of Andraste, polished and subliminally merciful, used to prop up a few Orlesian tomes.

It had been a dream, then.

“It’s all right,” I tried reassuring the elf, “I only – “

She dropped on her knees, as if not worthy of my words. “They say you saved us.” She was hard to hear, with her head so close to the floor. “The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.”

She lifted her head and began to rise, if only to breathe deeply. “You are back in Haven, my lady.”

I scoffed at the title. “I am no lady,” I argued, taking the tea she offered with an instinctual _ma serannas_. “Who is Adan?” I asked belatedly.

“I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened,” the elf took several steps back, eyes flicking fearfully towards the exit.

Oh, shit.

I began to sit up, abandoning my tea as I searched for a weapon. “That’s really not—“

“She said, ‘At once’.” The elf insisted, running out the door.

In the end, I had no reason to fear a collision with Cassandra. I took my time getting ready, opening the solitary window in the house and reading the notes left by the healer. I gingerly changed into my mercenary leathers – there was no point in pretending, now, but they were the only clothes I owned – bruises spread over my body like a sickness.

There was a crowd outside the hut. They moved and hissed like the rolling waves of the ocean, staring as a collective eye and whispering from behind my back. _Why did the Lady Cassandra have her in chains?_ **That’s her, that’s the Herald of Andraste**. _The Chantry wants nothing to do with us._

I walked brusquely, my bearing as straight as I could manage. I found my way into the single stone-built building in the entire settlement, cringing as I heard Nevarran curses.

_I do not believe she is guilty._

The elf failed, Seeker.

_I do not believe that._

I had the misfortune of meeting Grand Chancellor Roderick for the second time that week; first impressions hadn’t sweetened our gathering. He greeted me with an accusing finger and spiteful _Chain her_ , and despite Cassandra’s interruption and Leliana’s attempt at explanation, the most the Chantry man called me was ‘heretic’. He saw the frothing green of my hand as proof of my guilt, believed that I should not be judged by my own but instead by a Divine who had yet to be chosen. To him, I was a knife-ear who had orchestrated the defeat of the conclave because I was a Dalish savage, and couldn’t know any better.

Cassandra argued that I was exactly that which Roderick failed to see; divine providence. He snarled at the idea, arms crossed tightly.

Granted, I wasn’t exactly keen on becoming the next Andrastian puppet.

“You really think your Maker would send someone like me?” I asked her. I saw Leliana shift to the side of me, wincing despite her best efforts to conceal all emotion. I didn’t care. I knew the Chantry stories well enough. I knew what happened to the Maker’s chosen. Shartan wasn’t a hero of old; he was the victim of a horrific tale, a story told to scare children around a campfire. We all knew the moral.

Avoid the affairs of the _shemlen._

My ears were still ringing as Cassandra’s plea echoed in the halls of my mind. _We must act now; we have no choice. With you at our side_. I had been noncommittal, at best, begging for air and an escape from shemlen walls. I took the winding route, away from the war room and covered by trees, to find Solas, leaning against the wooden slabs of a house, arms bent in study. He had been waiting.

I did not wish him to see me. Cassandra’s firm handshake on the matter of the Inquisition had left me petrified, and I was in no mood to handle the taciturn hermit. Didn’t matter. He saw through my years of stealth training in a matter of seconds.

“The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all,” he smirked, eyes travelling downwards. Was it the _vallaslin_ , perhaps?

Exactly what I did _not_ want to hear. I scowled to display in no uncertain terms that I did not find him funny. At all. “I’m no hero,” I counteracted, for good measure.

“You think I’m mocking you,” Solas replied, pushing himself from the _shem_ wall and coming to face me. He regarded me with a studious look, like a human regarding a horse’s teeth. “This age has made people cynical,” he dryly observed, hands folded behind him in a show of superiority.

Hypocritical prick. I’d show him _cynical._

His posture stiffened as he explained. I hardly wanted to admit his journeys into the Fade sounded fascinating. “I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten,” he told me, and then he pondered out loud what kind of hero I would become. _I’m just curious_ , he said. Like I was a pawn on a chess board.

I refused to discuss his travels beyond the Veil, leaving him with the reassurance that the Templars would do _just_ fine handling the Breach. Thank you very much. He let me walk away with our conversation half-finished, perhaps surprised. Mostly unreadable.

I plodded to the local tavern, having given up on assembling any sense of inner peace and instead relying on alcohol to dull the pain of obligation.

Varric appeared, Biana slung casually over his shoulder. His friendly grin sobered as he came to sit beside me. “Drink?” I asked him, glad for his company. Any excuse would do. Varric leaned his crossbow against the table, raising a hand to Felsi wordlessly. She brought over drinks with a smile.

“Are you holding up all right?” He asked, after I’d complained about the intricacies of using a fork.

I shrugged as if to say, _I’m still alive_. “I can’t sleep without having nightmares. And I have a hard time breathing. The air is stagnant, here.”

“Don’t go to Orzammar,” he advised. I shuddered at the thought of living in an endless cave. “I mean, you went from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas—“ he took my hand, _the_ hand, into his calloused own, “—to joining the armies of the faithful.” I looked away in guilt. I couldn’t bear to have him question my commitment. He continued. “Most people would have spread that over more than one day.”

I couldn’t help but laugh softly, and turned to see his concerned expression. I smiled. “You always know the right thing to say, Varric.”

“It’s my job as storyteller,” he stood, bowing. He pulled several coins from a pouch, and raised Bianca over onto his back. “You might want to consider running,” he consented. I waved away the false counsel, as if to deny my own thoughts. “I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only imagine what learning to use a fork would look like.


	5. Legacy

For a long while, I was miserable.

No one quite knew what to do with me. As people gathered in the village of Haven, picking up as many pieces of normalcy as they could, it quickly became apparent that I simply _didn’t belong_.

My _vallaslin_ , fresh and coiled in honor of Mythal, caused people to stare. While at one time I may have been _inan_ , a shadow and the eyes of the Lavellan clan, now I was _herald_ , little more than a temporary figurehead. I was too important for skirmishes with raiders, too ignorant for correspondence and paperwork, too lowly to make decisions within the war room.

Instead, I cooked. Poorly. I tried a hand at mending tents, before being politely told to stop butchering the canvas. The horses made me nervous; the stable master sensed it the minute I stepped into the musky building. Cassandra refused to let me go anywhere alone, so I hunted with others. The _shems_ lacked the finesse I sought when stalking prey. I desperately missed my hunters.

Houses, trebuchets, carts for supplies and carts to carry weary refugees. These things and more were built. The roads were cleared, a plot of land set aside by the farmers for next spring. A smith by the name of Harrit was brought on to handle repairs. When the Inquisition gifted me with a new set of armor, I humbly accepted. I bit back bitter tears when they gave me a set of freshly-forged daggers. And I nearly gave up the fragile commitment I had pledged Cassandra when they gave me a _shem_ house all my own. 

Nearly.

I had a full pack tied to my shoulders. I had only taken my pair of gifted daggers, a few blankets and a bit of food – just enough to get me a few days away. The Frostbacks would provide for me, until I reached Jader. Guiltily, I had also stolen a coin purse; but there was no other way. The boats would not take me to the Free Marches without gold.

I looked over my back, towards the Chantry. Just one last glance at this paltry clan that had tried, and would fail.

“Lindirinae.”

I closed my eyes, breathing heavily through my nose. It was a bad habit, left over from my days as an apprentice.

That voice could test Sylaise, herself.

I whirled to face Solas, as he dryly observed my growing aggravation. I saw the ghost of a tug at the corner of his lips.

“Why do you call me that?” I spat, consciously adjusting the weight of the pack. Most of the villagers called me _herald_ , or _knife-ear_ if they didn’t know any better. Some few called me the preferable “Lavellan”. Only Solas called me by my full name, usually in conjunction with a quip about the Dalish.

He feigned surprise. “That is your given name. What else would you have me call you?”

Creators, he was infuriating. I resisted the urge to wallop him with his own staff and instead childishly stalked towards the gates.

“The namesake is fitting,” he called out to my retreating figure, “only you could match such a person born of stubbornness.”

Fen’harel take him, he knew. _He knew_. I spun towards him, not willing to completely fall into his trap but taking the bait, anyways. I stood my ground.

“Lindirinae was not **stubborn** ,” I countered across the makeshift courtyard. “She held out for the Dales during the Exalted Marches. She is a testament to the strength of our people!”

“Our people?” Solas called back. “She is a testament to children acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly a thousand times. A testament that ultimately _failed_.”

“Her death was a grand injustice,” I retorted hotly, hurt that he had so indifferently cast aside a hero from before. She was the last to hold Evanura, and when she fell, the Dales fell. Such was my namesake. Such was my legacy.

Solas was coolly walking towards me, slowly bridging our gap across the field. It took every ounce of Dalish pride to stand straight as he approached. I hadn’t realized my shouting had attracted the ears of the entire village.

“Death is never grand, _da’len_.”

I was taken aback. “ _Ir abelas, hahren._ ” For once, I was genuine.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he repeated the apology. And then, “I did not realize you would be traveling with me to the Breach.”

“But—“ I raised a hand as if to deny the invitation.

“I would be glad of the company,” he interrupted, giving me an insistent look. I nodded dumbly, in confusion. I saw figures walking towards out of the corner of my eye, and looked to Solas again. His eyes bore into me, somehow both shrewd and candid. Try as I might, I could not read him. I continued my stare as two figures approached us, a knot forming in the back of my throat. _Glad of the company_.

It was the stomping that gave Cassandra away.

“Maker’s breath, did the druffalo get loose?” Cullen was not far behind, arms crossed tightly despite the metal gauntlets.

“What’s going on here?” Cassandra asked, imperious looking with a hand on her sword hilt. She took in my pack and Solas’ blank look in a single sweep. “Where are you going? I _told_ you to not venture out alone.”

Solas cut in before the steam reached my ears. “This is my doing, seeker. I thought I might continue my search at the Breach, and asked Lindirinae” – here I snorted, “—to join my party. The veil is quite thin in the area.”

Cullen agreed earnestly. “Yes, one must be wary of demonic possession. There is safety in numbers.”

Cassandra was less impressed. “Fine. Be back tomorrow morning. Leliana wanted to discuss scout movement in Templar territory.” I still did not trust the hooded woman, as skilled a spymaster as she have proven herself to be. I warily nodded assent.

Cullen reconsidered. “Maybe we should send one of my Templars with you.” He blanched under my glare. Well, at least _someone_ took me seriously. “Or Blackwall.”

“Thank you,” Solas smirked, “but that is quite unnecessary.” With that, he walked towards the great wooden gates that housed the village of Haven.

Cassandra grabbed my arm as I began to follow. “If you see anything, leave.” Concern colored her expression. “Anything at all.”

“Don’t trust me with an apostate?” I teased her.

“I trust _you_ , yes,” was all that she would say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Mama Cass.
> 
> I debated including this Lavellan's first name at all in this story. I feel all us solamancers may more easily relate to a plain-jane Lavellan, especially when written in the first-person. However, the fear of not living up to a namesake, or worse, _sharing the success_ of a strong, independent, but very-much defeated, Lindirinae, makes for great character study and development.


	6. The Ace of Cups

Our journey was an unspoken truce, a departure from the impalpable smirks and derision and instead an understanding of commonality. Whatever we may have lacked in shared perspective, however much I despised his arrogance and formality, we were still both elves who ate solitary meals in the epicenter of Andrastian refuge. We did not pray to the Maker, did not believe the Temple of Sacred Ashes – _Andraste’s ashes_ – was worth rebuilding. I doubted Solas believed I was the Herald, as surely as I doubted my role as her protector and messenger. We were there for one reason alone: the Breach.

We traveled quickly, wordlessly establishing a rhythm in our movements. Solas led us, using his staff to maintain balance as we shifted through the uneven wilds of the Frostbacks. I was quieter on foot, following directly behind Solas to conceal our number. Some habits never died.

He did not mention my prepared pack, nor did he bring up Cassandra’s interrogation. These were the problems of Haven, something we’d left at the gates of village. Instead, he told me of the Battle of Ayesleigh, and the strength of the legendary griffons. They alone tore apart Andoral and allowed Garahel the chance to bury a longsword into the archdemon’s throat. A true battle of sacrifice, he told me, each word weighing heavy.

It reminded me of the dream, of the pale elf watching from the whispering wood. _Bring forth the sacrifice._

“Do spirits always reenact earthly moments in the Beyond?” I asked him.

“The Fade reflects the world around it. The more emotion, the stronger the spirits press. It is like a moth to flame.”

“And what of our dreams? What of places and events that never happen – or may happen?”

I nearly ran into him, he stopped so suddenly. His steady breath steamed in the cold morning light.

“Place and time is not nearly so important in the Fade as concept and symbol,” he finally answered, looking at me with a quizzical brow. I was close enough to trace the harsh edges of his jawline. “Does something trouble you, _da’len_?”

“No,” I was emphatic, “nothing is troubling me.” Creators, was he really that much taller than me?

His masked his expressions, careful to not pry. He took a single step, small but significant, away from me. I felt the rush of Haven’s chill seep into the void he had created.

I could tell he didn’t believe me.

We arrived at the Temple’s ruins silently. Our first order of business was our protection; the Temple of Sacred Ashes, or what was left of it, was still dangerous. The death of thousands in such a small place was bound to have an effect on the Fade. As little as I knew about magic, I appreciated the runes Solas cast about in protection. Even I could feel the Veil’s flimsiness. I found a small cove of rubble and started a measly camp.

I spent the remainder of the day sifting through dust and rock, hardly knowing what I was searching for and yet determined, all the same. A few times my hand prickled, as if it were being pulled towards some unseen force. I found a few tomes this way, scholarly pursuits that Vivienne would appreciate. Solas had worse luck than me, hands turning up completely empty. Whatever he thought we might recover was nowhere to be found. He did not seem surprised.

We camped out under the Breach, a sinister aurora that resonated an ethereal green. Even the ice from our small stream sang with verdant malice. We shared the bread I had packed for my escape and a rabbit I had caught and skinned, cooking over a mundane fire that happily contrasted the heavens above us. He was happy to answer my questions about Arlathan, to talk of crystal spires and a shared beauty of both earth and Fade, harmonious and indistinguishable. He used lithe arms to depict the height of elvhen trees, slim fingers marking the curves of a floating palace. I had never heard him speak with such energy and animation. I’d never really heard him speak so much, at all.

His best memories were within crumbling ruins, long picked over by treasure seekers. He told of newer stories, like the battle at Denerim, of a sullen golem and spirit of faith defending the city gates.

“The Dalish helped carve a way for the Hero of Ferelden to battle Urthemiel,” he offered, a small smile forming as I gloated. I had heard the stories during _Arlathvhen_ , of course. It was all that much sweeter to hear from Solas.

I had not breathed so evenly in weeks.

“In truth, I have enjoyed experiencing more of life to find more of the Fade,” he admitted, and I raised my eyes from the allure of the campfire, inquiring.

“You train to flick a dagger or an arrow to its target,” he started, taking one of my obisidian daggers – freshly cleaned from the night’s hunt—and enveloping it with his blue-green flame. “The grace with which you move,” and here the dagger twirled – “is a pleasing side benefit. You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy.”

His hand snapped suddenly, the dagger leaping across the air to land with audible heft at the base of a tree.

“As have I.” He said finally.

“You’re suggesting I’m graceful?” I asked, teasing. I waited for the snide comment on Dalish custom to materialize.

“No,” he began. “I am declaring it.” His eyes took in every inch of me, and I could feel my _vallaslin_ writhe under the scrutiny. “It was not a subject for debate.”

I laughed shyly, unable to do little else. His gaze continued, relentlessly.

“Your movement is remarkable,” he persisted, “even with the aid of magic, I have difficulty following your steps.” My ears burned at the thought of someone _watching_ me. I had to remember it was for the sake of his magical barriers that his eyes trained so closely. “Did the Dalish teach you these skills?”

“Yes,” I told him, and then frowned. “Maybe.” His eyebrows shot up in curiosity. I rubbed my forehead in frustration. “I was always quiet of step, and so they trained me to be a hunter,” I explained, thinking of Vunin and the others. “But lately, I’m...” my voice trailed off. Solas waited, patient as always. “Better at it.” I said with an air of finality. It was the best I could do. I was faster, more nimble, hardly requiring a shadow flask to disappear in the eyes of my enemies anymore. But it wasn’t simply that: my actions had become fluid as water. I looked at Solas, _hahren_ , expectantly.

“Perhaps your mark enhances your abilities,” Solas suggested, slowly. “Or offers new skills.”

“What,” I scoffed, “Like magic?” I blushed at the thought, the words tasting ridiculous.

“Precisely.”

I waved away the idea. Once, when I was young, my clan had entertained the possibility. My sister had unknowingly conjured a storm in grief over a sickly halla, and I was several years her junior. There was a chance, they believed. But it was my sister who was sent away, becoming the First of another clan and a stranger in all but memory. I had resisted the idea then, unhappy about the idea of leaving my parents and clan. Knowing the stories of errant mages with good intentions. Learning that magic was what undid them. Undid everything.

It was a small wonder I resisted the very idea of magic. That I refused its knowledge, even now.

“Think about it, _da’len_.” Solas told me, after I had sat in silence and our fire was reduced to embers.

I did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Arlathvhen** : a gathering of Dalish clans, happening every ten years or so.
> 
> In reference to the Chapter Title: Warning. I knew absolutely _zilch_ about Tarot up until about 52 hours ago. No worries, I own my very own deck and guidebook now. My fandom knows no bounds.


	7. The Law

“I spy with my little eye…”

“No.”

I turned to Cassandra, who had the look of someone who’d just smelled old cabbage. We were in the Hinterlands, far from the eastern road and avoiding as many Mage and Templar skirmishes as necessary. We ignored the sounds of metal and the arcane clashing. There was nothing we could do. Not yet.

Varric shrugged his shoulders at me, grinning. He did love pushing her buttons.“Just let me know when you’re ready to play.” 

She replied with her familiar disgust.

I looked further back to Solas, an unfortunate habit that was growing more frequent. He had been quiet since leaving Haven, more distant than usual. More often than not, I led our adventurous group, routinely climbing hills and trees to gain a scouting advantage. Solas always trailed behind. I imagined his slow gait as a fleeting commitment; that one day, I’d look back to find him gone. He had never broken a promise, of course, never given me a reason to distrust him beyond our first meeting…

Yet, I couldn’t help the paranoia: he had never _made_ promises. He had never been anything but vaguely useful, never putting himself in a position to _be_ anything but trustworthy. Even this excursion was led from his advice, from his knowledge of the Fade and his want to strengthen the Veil. “The artifacts of my people will help, _da’len_ ,” he had told me. _My_. I couldn’t help but see his steps as heavier today, a knowing barrier placed between him and _us_. As if his thoughts were somewhere else.

I had awoken that morning to a camp that had been falsely aged; tracks had carefully been covered, debris littering our little clearing as if to conceal our stay. Even the embers were cold, as if unused for weeks.

He had been waiting for me, each sip of his own tea a hard-fought battle. He handed me my own cup unceremoniously. “Sleep well?” He had asked. When I returned the question, he shook his head, mumbling about the Fade being disturbed in the area.

Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen him sleep at all.

Varric gave me a knowing look, and waved to Solas. “Morning, Chuckles.”

“Master Tethras.”

“What's with you and the doom stuff?” Varric tutted. “Are you always this cheery or is the hole in the sky getting to you?”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.” Solas turned his gaze on me in silent accusation. As if he blamed me for Varric’s pestering. Our truce of the night before no longer existed, the pulsing knot in my chest diminished to a distant buzz.

I hadn’t completely forgotten his remarks about my namesake, either.

“You two,” Cassandra warned hotly, lifting her shield from her back and pointing as she did. _Danger ahead_. I instantly dropped low to the ground, using brush to hide my advancement. The figure ahead was alone, but the stave marked magical ability. I stood abruptly upon noticing the familiar armor of a Dalish mage.

“ _Aneth ara_ ,” I greeted, lifting my hands upwards in a Thedosian sign of peace. The mage was young – her _vallaslin_ was fresher than mine – but she looked travel worn, eyes weary and pained. She saw me, her focus turning on Cassandra’s armor and then Bianca. She lifted her staff more out of curiosity than defense.

“It is good to see one of the People,” she replied, and I couldn’t help but note that she did not include Solas in her welcome. “I am Mihris, First of Clan Virhen.” Years of training told me the stress she placed on _First_ showed her arrogance. I pushed away the impression. “From which clan do you hail?” she asked.

“Clan Levallan. It has been a long time since I’ve met another Dalish elf. I am Lin-“ I paused, using the breadth of a single, tactical moment to recover. “Diri.” If _he_ caught my mistake, he did not show it. “Are you fighting these demons on your own?”

“Mythal keep you. Fighting the demons is pointless, I am instead searching for artifacts of our People.” She would not look Solas in the eye. Prejudice, perhaps. “I heard they may tell us where new rifts appear.” The silent request for help was encouraged by a tight smile.

“Ah,” I nodded, “we heard that, as well.” I eyed Solas in suspicion. For his part, he also seemed disturbed by the chance meeting.

“ _Ma harel, da’len_.”

She swallowed. “I – We should move on.”

I did not need to see Solas move lithely to my side, steering me away from the rest of the group, to know he disapproved. I regarded his taciturn expression with impatience.

“I do not trust her,” he articulated each word with a low staccato.

As much as my instincts approved, his use of the term harel had shocked me. It was not a word to be taken lightly. “Solas,” I said, fighting the path he guided us down and trying to return to the group, “You don’t trust anyone.”

“Varric, is it the kettle that calls the pot black?” Solas asked loudly, “or the other way around? I cannot seem to recall the phrase.”

“I’ll tell you if you let me use that for my next book.” Varric was snickering.

I tried to regain control of the conversation. “She is a Dalish mage who understands the threat the Breach poses,” I shushed, “and knows about the elvhen artifacts. What else matters?”

“Everything.” He looked at me like I was child. I seethed. “Do you not wonder _how_ she came by this information?”

“I’ll have to remind Cassandra to treat every elf apostate we run across as a threat to the Inquisition,” I hissed. _Hahren._

He remained collected. That was the worst part of it all. “No,” he said blatently, “Just the Dalish.”

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” I cursed, unwilling to hear another word. I left Solas behind and trudged back to the group, daggers out in heady anticipation. Mythal’s mercy, I needed a demon to hack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Aneth ara** : a familiar greeting, used among Dalish.
> 
> This is a chunk of a chapter that I decided to break up into two (three?) parts. The intricacies of The Masked Empire demand it.
> 
> (That's actually an excuse. But I'll be damned if Felassan isn't referenced _somewhere_.)


	8. The Jungle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "NOW this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky,  
> And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the wolf that shall break it must die."

Sometimes, the idea of ancient ruins leaves an imagination to wander. You romanticize the quarried bricks and metal scraps into lost treasure and lore, where very quickly it becomes the remnants of hopes and dreams and unknown potential. _Lathbora viran_. In my mind, the ruins to which we journeyed were the very best of sprawling spires, tree roots laced with green patina and crystal glass. Instead, as Mihris followed our group into what could only be described as stoney _mush_ , I had to come to the harsh realization that sometimes, I wanted to believe and see things that simply did not exist. Could never exist. 

“You, flat-ear. Can you manage?” 

The racial slur brought me back from my daydreams of Arlathan. The entrance before us was blocked by crumbling rock, something not even Cassandra’s will power could shatter. Flat-ear, she had said. Hadn’t we all? I frowned, staring at Mihris until she looked away. Did I ever sound like that, too? 

Cassandra looked at me with a silent question, asking to intervene. I shook my head violently. I didn’t want to admit mistakes I had made, myself. 

“ _Ma nuvenin, da’len._ ” He raised his hands, and a coiling tendril of blue light snaked into the rocks, moving them safely away from the Elvhen entrance. 

Half a dozen demons were waiting for us in the dark dank, arms held out in a form of battle stance. I hurled a throwing knife and quickly felled a lesser shade before Mihris even had a chance to raise her staff. 

By that point, I had disappeared, using the angle of the afternoon shadows to my advantage. I funneled my anger into each precise movement, troubled that Solas had casually dismissed the Dalish and perhaps more distraught with myself. I flanked another demon, twisting a dagger up into fiendish intestines, spun to gain momentum, _launched_ myself as a two-pronged weapon at a retreating wraith, and finished with a guttural stab. Solas and Mihris used their frost magic before I managed my attention at the rage demon. 

“It seems Harrit’s daggers are well balanced,” Cassandra said, raising an eyebrow. 

I grinned, muscles aching and sweat lining my forehead. 

Mihris and Varric had already made their way over to the far wall, the Dalish elf coaxing magic out of an old brazier with a wave of a hand. She handed me the torch silently, entreating me to lead the way. 

We left the main hall of the ruin, going downwards and taking our time on the stairwell. Varric used the time to chat-up the aloof First, inquiring after an old ‘colleague’ of his – Merril, from the Sabrae clan. He wasn’t exactly sure how to pronounce it. 

“I know of her,” Mihris was careful with her words, I noticed, “– but I’ve never met her, no. Her clan rarely travelled into the Dales, where I grew up.” 

“What are you doing so far south?” Varric was always surprised to hear of visitors to Ferelden. “All this mud to contend with.” 

“I…” Mihris paused. “I left in service of my clan,” she amended, “and saw that great tear in the Veil on my journey.” 

“Yeah.” Varric nodded. “Kinda hard to miss.” 

Roots from ancient trees hung from the ceiling of the lower level, debris littered everywhere. Cassandra and Bianca made short work of the remaining spirits, the Seeker handling the frontline while Varric and his crossbow picked off the rear sentry. 

We explored at leisure, once Solas convinced us that no more demons would approach. It was then that I saw the faint outline – a glimmer of magic. 

I walked towards the derelict wall, raising my veilfire torch in order to see the markings clearly. The origin was certainly not Dwarven. Tevinter copy? I learned in for a closer look. Was that an Elvhen rune, or-- 

Black. Then, white. Not a clean, calming white. A white that blinds with brightness, a white that induces panic and terror. The whistle of splinters, of wood and rock, shrieking. Then, heavy drums. Silence. The air suffocating of sulfate. The force of the explosion undoing my braids, whipping the heavy skins of my armor like leaves during a summer storm. Unbearable heat. 

But I _could_ breathe. I started to hear the dull thud of a flustered heartbeat. It took a minute, but as I lowered my arms and my guard, my vision began to return. Color formed. Cassandra mouthing to Solas, _health potion, now_. 

I jerked back, coughing. “I don’t –“ and here I rasped, “need one.” 

Varric laughed. “Maker’s breath, I thought you’d gone up in a plume of smoke.” He shook his head in wild disbelief. 

I inspected my leather vambraces – which would been have the first casualties, as I’d raised my arms to protect my face – and then my boots. Not a single thread had been burned, though the air around me smelled hollow and lifeless. I felt, rather than saw, the blue-green energy dither around me, falling rapidly to my feet and dissipating with a final shimmer. I caught Solas’ frown in the corner of my eye, as he lowered a trembling staff. 

Cassandra was furious. 

“Be _careful_ ,” she exclaimed, stalking up to me and inspecting my hands. Inspecting the mark. I tore them away from her, annoyed. 

It only took a moment, a listless moment to take a breath and clench a shaking hand. But then he was composed. Solas walked up to the black-charred wall, examining the glow of ancient script. “It seems the fire rune is still intact,” he added dryly, as if concerned more for the state of a magical vestige than my well-being. 

It occurred to me that he was _trying_. 

“Are you safe, _lethallan_?” Mehris shouted, staff at the ready. She had come running from the other end of the hall. She saw my determined look and nodded in understanding. “There,” she pointed. I walked with her, leaving the duty of veilfire to Solas. “If we activate that crystal, it should react to the strength of the Veil.” 

Solas used the torch to light the elven artifact, visibly relaxing as the ward came to life. I found myself easing tensed shoulders. The sooner the Breach was dealt with, the sooner the Veil healed, the sooner I could go back to my clan. 

“It seems the ancestors left something for me as well,” Mihris added, bending over a bronzed chest. 

Solas stopped her. “ _Ma halani, ma glandival. Vir enasalin._ ” Mihris frowned, troubled over the words. Varric and Cassandra sent me confused looks, to which I shrugged my shoulders. Gods, how I’d wished I’d been more patient with my studies of the old language. 

“Perhaps you are right. Here, take it.” She offered the amulet to Solas, who stored it in his pack wordlessly. Mihris turned towards me, wishing me Mythal’s blessing. Her eyes were tired. 

I smiled as warmly as I could muster. “If your clan can ever spare you, you are welcome to join the Inquisition,” I offered, to which she half-bowed. “ _Dareth shiral, Mihris_.” I left her there, still troubled. 

Later, when Varric and Cassandra were discussing Kirkwall and I had faltered behind out of respect, Solas came to walk beside me. His face was grim. 

“That rune should not have reacted the way it did.” He began, quietly. He tried to hide the note of concern, but I heard it in his voice, all the same. “Perhaps you should practice caution around any magical artifacts, until we further understand your abilities.” 

“Why’d you do it?” I asked him. Why did he throw a barrier? It was a stupid question – I regretted the words, even as I said them – but for some inexplicable reason, I needed to know. I needed to know why we were verbal sparring partners one moment, kindred souls the next. The pale elf in my dreams was no longer a stranger, just as Solas was no longer a flat-ear. He was _hahren_. 

And then, he wasn’t. 

“Cause and effect, _da’len_.” He told me. Cryptic as always. 

That was it. We were both stubborn, both unable to say sorry. Our apologies were silent and grave, laced with pedantic wisdom in his case and searing curse words in mine. We each smiled, and I turned to lead the group. I stopped. 

He was pulling at my sleeve, guiding me to stand before him. 

He deftly raised the amulet over my braids, allowing it to settle around my neck. The proximity made my ears burn. 

“I have little use for this,” he explained, lingering longer than my nerves could possibly handle. The texture of his linen tunic was soft, the pattern a barely discernable herringbone weave. I measured the expanse of his chest with wandering eyes before forcing myself to focus. “But you will benefit from the token reminder of a packmaster.” 

I took the charm into my hands, examining the clay molding, inscripted with tiny irregular letters. _The strength of the pack is the wolf._ He stepped back and supported himself with his staff. Just like that, I felt the cold indifference creep back. What was it that made him so cautious, so singular? What was he _hiding_?

“I do not advise throwing yourself so carelessly at danger without first considering the group, _da’len_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all about mistakes and redemption for the elf characters of this chapter, particularly Mihris (a character who absolutely fascinates me). Also, Rudyard Kipling.
> 
>  **Additional note** : For those who watch any Elvhen/Solas interaction in DA:I with keen fanaticism (like me) might notice that Mihris' introduction is much more friendly, and trusting, playing in-game as a Lavellan. Specifically, Mihris will admit to Lavellan that a demon destroyed her clan, while to a Cadash or Trevalyn, she is almost lying, she is that vague. I opted for the non-Lavellan introduction, for development reasons. I got _big_ plans for Mihris.


End file.
